


The Quiet Before Dawn

by PhoenixDragon



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2413448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He wasn’t afraid anymore. Too old for that kind of nonsense. Fear was the nightmare of the young. And he hadn’t been young in quite a while, no matter what his face told the world four centuries ago.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quiet Before Dawn

He was only going to rest a minute. Just one. The darkness behind his eyelids was soothing, a temptation after a day of adrenaline and close calls. Many of them too close.

He was getting too old to be able to do much more than out-clever his opponents. That was still simple enough (child’s play really), but his bones didn’t move with the ease they used to and at times like these they were all too happy to remind him. He wasn’t young anymore. Even his face refused to retain the youth he started with, the years he denied with this regeneration creeping upon him in slow degrees. Dialing the years back would be a waste of regenerative energy he didn’t really have anymore.

Besides…River wouldn’t approve.

He chuckled quietly to himself, rearranging his coat and sinking into a more comfortable repose, the sharp sting of her loss a pain that had mellowed over the centuries – a longing that couldn’t be quite touched upon, though it could be tasted when the night was creeping to dawn and the hours felt like days. He missed her greatly. He missed her parents. The list of all those he missed and ached for was long (ever so long) and while he never intended to sleep, he did – and while he slept he dreamed of them. His loves. His friends and Companions. It was only in these dreams that he could remember them ever so clearly – and his memories were sharpening over time. He knew what that meant.

He wasn’t afraid anymore. Too old for that kind of nonsense. Fear was the nightmare of the young. And he hadn’t been young in quite a while, no matter what his face told the world four centuries ago.

He bit back a cough, then grimaced (eyes still closed), as his back and shoulders twinged with the force of it, his hips complaining that he had been sitting too long, even as the rest of him declined to move right now, thank you very much. The light from the crack washed over him, the voices a droning buzz that made him half mad the first two centuries, but then had become a soothing lull – a constant background noise that required no answer, even as it perpetually demanded it.

They always were a pushy lot, his people. It was like he was thumbing his nose at them all over again. A thought that still made him smile, even as the idea of them being so near (yet so far) brought a different ache. So very close to dread and yet very close to being homesick, if such a man as him could ever be so. It was a curious notion and one he often toyed with as he sat bathed in the light that reminded him of regeneration in more ways than one.

There was no hope of seeing that again. The idea was almost a comfort in and of itself.

He could feel his chin tilt to his chest, the warm light from the crack and the late hour beckoning him to sleep. There was truly no need to fight it. Dawn was still a short time away and he knew he wouldn’t miss it. There was no one to watch the dawn with anymore (Handles having shut down more than four decades ago), but it was nice to remember him and feel the sun upon his face. He owed him that much. He owed them all that much.

It was still quiet when he slipped into the deep, (yet semi-aware) sleep of the old and tired. The light from the time-rift played over his face and sent dreams of red grass and orange skies, silver leaves and clear waters – soothing him to a deeper doze – the light itself throwing back shadows, folding back his years with eerie, dancing radiance. For a moment, one could see the man he had been when he first arrived here (just a moment), then the illusion was gone.

Far above him, beyond the ships that hovered too near and yet so far, the stars of his home-dimension flickered and danced, sending out their own message to the old man that slept beneath them in his simple, yet cozy abode. A message that he felt more than he heard. A message that kept him fierce and sharp, even as his last body slowly failed. A message that kept his hearts warm, even on his bleakest days.

But like his name, it was something he could never speak of, even as it echoed across the stars as it always had and it always would: Hope. Peace. Love. The light that shines through the darkness, whether that be above one’s world, or within the world of one’s soul.

Dawn slowly approached Christmas, the sole town of Trenzalore – the sleeping inhabitants safe and secure within the borders of their home for another day. Just as they had been for centuries before and as they would be for centuries more to come. The man who made it possible allowing himself a few more minutes of rest before he made the climb to greet the sun.

The planet tilted slowly toward the light, the shine of it piercing into the shadows and dissipating the restless clouds below. It was Christmas morning on Trenzalore – and now (finally, after so many years), they were halfway out of the dark.  


**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings:** Character Study, Introspection, Missing Scene  
>  **A/N:** Written for [](http://who-contest.livejournal.com/profile)[**who_contest**](http://who-contest.livejournal.com/)'s **Prompt:[Light and Dark](http://who-contest.livejournal.com/215213.html)**. This was one of those fictions that was elusive and coy, even up to the end of writing it. I had an idea (and a vague direction on where it was going), but somehow, I think it slipped away from me. I am terribly unsure of the final piece, but rather than fiddle with it further, I suppose the best idea is to leave it here and hope my readers can see the meanings behind the words. As always, this fic is mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. And (as per usual), I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/blithery and unbeta'd.  
>  **Disclaimer(s): _I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!_**


End file.
